g with _the juste milieu_, for once in my
life.

The cuirassiers were too much in a hurry to get through the _guichet_,
which was a defile, and too steady to cut me down in passing; and, first
giving them a few minutes to take the edge off the affair, if there was
to be any fighting, I followed them to the quay.

This alarm was real, I understood next day; but the revolters made their
retreat by the Pont des Arts, which is impracticable for cavalry,
attacking and carrying a _corps de garde_, in the Quartier St. Jacques.
The cuirassiers were trotting briskly towards the Pont Neuf, in order to
get at them, when I came out on the quay, and, profiting by the
occasion, I got across the river, by the Pont des Arts.

It was strange to find myself alone on this bridge at midnight, in the
heart of a great capital, at a moment when its streets were filled with
troops, while contending factions were struggling for the mastery, and
perhaps the fate of not only France, but of all Europe, was hanging on
the issue! Excited by these reflections, I paused to contemplate the
scene.

I have often told you how picturesque and beautiful Paris appears viewed
from her bridges. The finest position is that of the Pont Royal; but the
Pont des Arts, at night, perhaps affords even more striking glimpses of
those ancient, tall, angular buildings along the river, that, but for
their forms and windows, would resemble low rocky cliffs. In the centre
of this mass of dwellings, among its damp and narrow streets, into which
the sun rarely penetrates, lay bodies of men, sleeping on their arms, or
merely waiting for the dawn, to decide the fate of the country. It was
carrying one back to the time of the "League" and the "Fronde," and I
involuntarily cast my eyes to that balconied window in the Louvre, where
Charles IX. is said to have stood when he fired upon the flying
Protestants. The brooding calm that reigned around was both
characteristic and strange. Here was an empire in jeopardy, and yet the
population had quietly withdrawn into their own abodes, awaiting the
issue with as much apparent tranquillity, as if the morrow was to be
like another day. Use, and a want of sympathy between the governed and
their governors, had begotten this indifference.

When I reached the Quai Voltaire, not a man was visible, except a
picket on the Pont Royal. Not knowing but some follower of the House of
Orleans, more loyal than usual, might choose to detain me, beca